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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25008667">(un)lost</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/realmsoffreedom/pseuds/realmsoffreedom'>realmsoffreedom</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Merlin (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drug Use, F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Substance Abuse</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 05:22:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,240</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25008667</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/realmsoffreedom/pseuds/realmsoffreedom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"I'm not looking to be found. I just want to feel unlost." </i>
</p><p>Or, Arthur meets Merlin at a Pride parade, and gets a whole lot more than he bargained for.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Gwen/Lancelot (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>29</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>(un)lost</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hi! </p><p>so, this is actually my second time posting this - i started writing this fic last june, after i'd gotten home from pride, and i got a few chapters in before deciding i wasn't happy with it and tabling it. but in the past few months, i've spent so much time planning, and i've made so many pinterest boards, and i finally feel like i have a clear idea of what i want to do with this. i hope you guys will enjoy it. </p><p>i wanted to post on the last day of pride month because i want this story to embody the idea that pride goes far beyond the month of june. pride, this celebration of yourself and your identity, is a lifelong thing. it doesn't end on june 30th. the journey and the achievement of pure pride in who you are happens at any time, in any place, and i just wanted to pay tribute to that.</p><p>before we begin, i'd like to also make the note that black lives matter. black trans lives matter. black queer lives matter. the black individuals in queer communities are being doubly marginalized and targeted right now, and so i'd like to say that i hear and see all of you, and we will not rest until you are able to rest freely as well, without the fear of murder for simply existing in your skin.  and, to any of my trans/non-binary identifying friends, you are valid in who you are and incredibly loved. i'm so proud of anyone living their truth, in whatever capacity they're able to, and so grateful to be part of this community. </p><p>trigger warnings in this chapter for some homophobic remarks (f-slur is used), anxiety, and internalized homophobia. enjoy.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Someone’s wearing a costume with a cutout in the arse.</p><p>He’s walking in the parade, but at the moment, everything’s kind of at a standstill. The float that just passed has halted a few feet further down the street, and its occupants have leapt off and are now milling around the space, mingling with some of those walking, and handing out fallen necklaces to the crowd. </p><p><i>Someone’s entire ass is on display right now, cheeks and all</i>.</p><p>“Figures that’s what I miss out on.” Morgana’s voice crackles through his speakers, confirming Arthur’s suspicion, that <i>yes, you really did say that out loud</i>.</p><p>He rolls his eyes and shifts his phone to his shoulder, forcing a smile onto his face as he accepts a held out string of beads. He mouths a silent ‘thank you’, and the child grins and waves, running back to jump on her float moments later.</p><p>“I’m still pissed at you for ditching me,” he mutters. He flicks his wrist and attempts to loop the string around his arm, relieved that Morgana actually can’t see him, right now. He’s sure he looks like an idiot.</p><p>“Oh yes, so sorry about that. I should’ve just told the sky to suck the rain in the other direction so my plane could take off,” Morgana quips. Arthur huffs, blowing out a heavy breath of air, and says nothing.</p><p>“What’s ass cutout guy look like?”</p><p>“What does he- I’m staring at his fuckin’ arse cheeks, Morgana!” Arthur exclaims. He really doesn’t know what to feel about it. He doesn’t know how he ended up here. <i>In the city, at one of the world’s biggest Pride parades…</i></p><p>It’s barely noon on a Sunday morning, and he’s already seen some bloke’s entire ass. And the man is walking around like it’s nothing, like he knows his cheeks are attracting the eyes of everyone he passes and it’s as normal as showing up in jeans and an old t-shirt. There’s a fucking tail protruding from the back of the costume, just above his ass cutout, and it wags back and forth with every step he takes. </p><p>“Yes, exactly. Are they perky? Flabby? He look like a guy that works out?”</p><p>“I am not answering any of those.” </p><p>“Hey, it’s good practice.”</p><p>“For <i>what</i>?” </p><p>He can practically see the light in Morgana’s eyes, the length of her grin, when she speaks next, “it’ll help you figure out your type.”</p><p>And there it is. Just a few simple words strung together, a phrase that’s thrown around so easily, and it’s digging into him. Pressing into his body until it breaks skin, causes pain and embeds every ounce of collateral damage with it. </p><p>“<i>Don’t</i>.” He grounds the word out, forcing himself to swallow against the lump in his throat. </p><p>“Arthur, I-”</p><p>“Don’t go there.” The words feel clumsy, tripping around his tongue and tumbling out into the world before they’re ready, unable to stand on their own. There needs to be more, she’s expecting more, but he doesn’t have it. He’s speaking faster than he can think, and suddenly, everything feels too fast, teetering on the brink of destruction in just these short few minutes. </p><p>“Hey. Take a deep breath.” Her voice sounds so much farther away. He tightens his grip around the phone and squeezes his eyes shut. “It’ll pass.”</p><p>“Sorry.”</p><p>“My fault,” Morgana mutters. Arthur blinks, suddenly much more grateful that she can’t see the expression on his face. He doesn’t remember the last time Morgana’s apologized to him. Of course, in her mind, she has nothing to apologize for, but he’s never seen her accept the responsibility without a protest or snarky comment. “Baby steps. I know.”</p><p>“I don’t think I can do this,” Arthur confesses. He accompanies the statement with a nod, although he knows she can’t see it. </p><p>“You’re already doing it,” Morgana reminds him. “You’re already there. You can’t leave now.”</p><p>“Says who?”</p><p>“Says-” He hears her exhale. “Listen, Arthur. All I meant was that you can think about it. You’re in the best place, to think about it. No one’s judging. And no one gives a shit. You can look and imagine and not worry about any of that, and if you wanna figure out what you like and don’t like, today’s the best day to do it.”</p><p>“Really?”</p><p>“Bloody hell, you <i>are</i> overthinking this,” Morgana mutters. “<i>Yes</i>. You can ogle at that guy’s arse cheeks for as long as you want without people thinking you’re some kinda sex-crazed weirdo. Everyone’s doing it. He didn’t put on that outfit with the intention of <i>not</i> being looked at.”</p><p>“I don’t know <i>what</i> intention he had,” Arthur says. “He looks bloody stupid.”</p><p>“He’s getting more than you, though. That’s for sure.”</p><p>“Morgana!”</p><p>“I’m just saying.” He can practically see her expression, raised eyebrows with the one hand slightly lifted in surrender. “You gotta live a little, Arthur. You’re at pride, <i>alone</i>. The world’s your fucking oyster. <i>Please</i>, take advantage of it.” She pauses for a couple seconds. Arthur can hear noise in the background, muffled voices that sound like they’re coming from a loudspeaker. “They just called my plane. I gotta go.”</p><p>“You’re boarding?”</p><p>“Yes,” Morgana replies. “This time tomorrow, I’ll be home. That’s- christ, that’s even strange to say.”</p><p>“It’s been almost three years.”</p><p>“I know.” Morgana pauses. Arthur hears her exhale, soft and shaky. “Everything is so different here, it’s just- it’s gonna be so fucking <i>weird</i>, coming back…”</p><p>“Are you sure you still want to?” He ventures, trying to keep the waver out of his voice. His stomach is already dropping at the thought. The weight seems to sink him, press against his bones until they ache, as it drags him toward the ground. <i>She has to come back. She has to</i>.</p><p>“I need to,” Morgana replies. She doesn’t say more. Arthur waits for something, any indication of why she’s so dependent on leaving the other side of the world, but it doesn’t come. He didn’t know she was planning this until she messaged him her itinerary, until he saw her name on the online boarding pass and found no return ticket beneath. </p><p>“What time are they saying you’re going to get in?” </p><p>“10,” Morgana says. “Flight’s nine hours. And then I’ll just Uber to my place, no big deal.”</p><p>“You absolutely will not,” he mutters. “I’ll be there.”</p><p>“Arthur-”</p><p>“This isn’t a negotiation.” </p><p>“Bastard.”</p><p>“I can’t wait to hug you,” he offers. And of course, he’s seen her, FaceTime calls and probably a few thousand selfies, but Morgana’s been abroad for so long. He was surprised when she told him she was coming back, so sure that Canada would become her new (permanent) home. He’s missed her so much.</p><p>“Me too.” Morgana takes a deep breath, and Arthur waits for her to continue. “Fa- Uther doesn’t know anything, right?”</p><p>“He doesn’t,” Arthur confirms, nodding even though she can’t see it. “And your old place is all set, Leon stopped by last night and made sure the water and heat and all got turned on again.”</p><p>Morgana sighs. “Thank you, Arthur. Tell Leon thank you, as well.”</p><p>“I will.”</p><p>There are more muffled voices in the background, louder this time. “Fuck, I really have to go.”</p><p>“Have a safe flight.”</p><p>“I’ll see you soon, little brother.”</p><p>…</p><p>“A little to the left. No, wait, right a bit… Left a bit, no, right-”</p><p>“You better pick a damn direction before I shove this <i>right</i> up your ass,” Gwaine threatens, lifting his head up to shoot Merlin a glare.</p><p>“It needs to be straight.”</p><p>“Wouldn’t be the worst thing if it weren’t.”</p><p>“That’d actually be, like, a really funny ironic touch.” Gwen rests a hand on Merlin’s shoulder, as she comes up behind him. “Since it’s going on a float that’s for Pride, after all.”</p><p>“You might be onto something, there…” He takes a step back and tilts his head. “You know what? Yeah. Let’s go with that, Gwaine, leave it how it is!”</p><p>“I hate you so much.” Gwaine snatches his bag up from the ground and plunges a hand into the front pocket. He roots around for a few seconds and eventually unearths the pack of cigarettes, lets his bag drop back down, and storms off. </p><p>“We leave in twenty minutes!” Merlin calls to his retreating back. He doesn’t receive a response.</p><p>“I can’t take him seriously.” Gwen punctuates the sentence with a peal of laughter. “Not when- not when he looks like, well…that.”</p><p>Merlin stifles a giggle of his own. When Gwaine first showed up in costume, he was amused at the ears and the tail protruding a foot and a half behind him. The cutout in the ass, on the other hand, he could’ve never seen coming. He couldn’t stop laughing. Gwaine glared at Percy’s grin from across the room, mumbled something about how “bets were stupid”, and how he was “never handing his fuckin’ life to Percy again”.</p><p>“Are the others here yet? We’ll be late if we don’t start loading up soon…”</p><p>“Lance just went to look for them,” Gwen replies. “I saw Elena a couple minutes ago, something about redoing one of her eyelashes? And Elyan’s gone off to sit for a bit, before we go. He’s still really sore…the doctors said today should be fine, but…”</p><p>“He’ll be okay,” Merlin promises. He takes a step forward and grabs hold of Gwen’s wrists, yanking her into him. Her arms slide around his waist and she places her head on his chest with a sigh. </p><p>“Another year.”</p><p>He smiles, resting his chin on top of her head. “Another year.”</p><p>…</p><p>This is a lot.</p><p>And he didn’t want it to be, tried everything possible to delegitimize the dismay, <i>you’re fine. It’s not a big deal. It’s one day. And you’ll never have to go back. You won’t have any regrets and you won’t have to go back. It works. It’ll work. Breathe</i>.</p><p>He can’t relax. He can’t force himself to calm down, stop listening and watching and tune out for more than a second, stay, amongst the strays of his thoughts and the reminders of what he’s not. They spiral and stick themselves together, swirl upward and stab into the pit of his stomach, seizing, seething, <i>stop</i>-</p><p>It’s pride. And it’s rainbows. And it should be just that, should be enough for his body to pause in perpetration, cease its attack, <i>today is not a debate</i>. It’s not a discussion. It’s not the confines of his room, incognito mode on his laptop, shades drawn, lights off, heart hammering inside his chest. Skipping a beat every time he circles back to it, closing tabs in a hurry, trying to combat freedom, in all its flurries. He’s not at peace when the world is expansive. It’s too big, too <i>much</i>, too many things to think about, taglines that target the part of him that needs to stay trapped, <i>they can’t know it’s not real they can’t</i>-</p><p>Only somehow, it is. </p><p>He <i>is</i>.</p><p>And he’s here and he can’t stop thinking. Can’t stop <i>looking</i>. Lingering for longer than simple seconds on shoulders and sideburns and <i>oh my fucking god, that guy’s</i> arms. <i>He could be a model</i>. His sleeves are made up of black ink. It splatters down both of his arms, spirals and curlicues that end just above both hands, contrasted heavily by the bunches of beads he has looped around each arm. Pale pinks and yellows and greens that he keeps pulling from his wrists and tossing into the crowd, grinning as people catch the necklaces and wave at him.</p><p>Tattoo Guy is perched at the top of one of the passing floats, ass-cut out man by his side, nudging at his shoulder, pointing at the crowd and whispering to him every few seconds. The logos on their shirts match the one stamped across the bottom of the float. </p><p>‘Albion: Center for LGBTQ+ Youth’<br/>
<i>Your safe place to land</i></p><p>Arthur swallows, long and heavy. </p><p>He isn’t sure why he keeps forgetting that. Why every mention of the word, every reiteration of the acronym, has his body acting like it’s the first time all over again. It’s fifteen years ago and he’s at the dinner table and he physically can’t stop shaking. The words are pointed and punctuated with something severe, heavy enough to sear itself into his chest and stay there, reactivating the flame every time they’re brought up again.</p><p>
  <i>Stupid fucking faggots think they can come around here, kissing and touching and contaminating everything.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Defying laws of nature with their “love”. Delusional is what it is. </i>
</p><p><i>Filthy fucking queers</i>.</p><p>And it plays, on a constant loop, runs through his head on repeat, like a tape with a broken off-switch. There are moments when it gets louder – <i>seeing two men kiss on the sidewalk, walking past a store with a rainbow flag perched in the window, being at a fucking pride parade</i> – and moments when it dulls to a barely audible roar, when he’s at work or on a run – <i>with music blasting so loudly that he can’t think</i> – and the world collectively exhales alongside him.</p><p>The worst is at every dinner table since. Every hour that ticks by, the slow seal of his fate, written in stone and bound to be unbroken, this is you. He was talking about you. You’re the faggot he wishes would burn in hell. You’re the opposite of everything he wants. This is you. He’s talking about you.</p><p>And every reminder is one more dagger, one more arrow, in his worn out target of a heart. One more chip, one more slice, one more painful poke in his side. He’s not okay and he won’t be able to maintain the façade for too much longer. He doesn’t know how he can keep this a secret anymore. He remembers when he thought his plan would work, when he’d be able to live that double life, manage both equally and keep himself from skating too far in either direction. He remembers when he felt like anything was possible, when the world seemed infinite and he no longer felt disposable.</p><p>He remembers that night in college, head against chest, sweat-soaked skin brushing against a tattooed arm, curling further against the other like he was all Arthur had. He remembers the moments during, and the immediate after, the way he slid into place like he was seasoned, assuming he knew what he was doing, assuming he was doing something that wasn’t going to get him <i>murdered</i>, at mere mention, assuming his intentions extended far beyond proving a point to someone who wouldn’t listen in the first place.</p><p>This wasn’t abstract, anymore. It wasn’t a thought he could box up and shove up into the depths of his head, back in the furthest closet for him to only open as he lay on his deathbed. This wasn’t something he could detach himself from and stop thinking about. It wasn’t something he could claim to know nothing about. </p><p>Things turned real, and they turned different. Separate. Sleeping with a guy for the first time felt like the first breath of real air he’s ever taken. The first whiff of the best oxygen on the planet, post-coital in its fervor, but unable to be staunched. This was it, the moment that everyone talked about and told stories of and hyped until it was too good to be even remotely true. This was the first touch, the first hand hold, the first <i>kiss</i>, with someone who would be dismissed on the spot.</p><p>He still wishes he could bottle the feeling and stay drunk off of it, 24/7.</p><p>Intoxicated off the feeling of freedom, for the first time. Feeling the way they can’t shut up about, in the movies. Inebriated by the expansiveness of what was to come, <i>dating boys. Cuddling with boys. Having fun with boys. Kissing</i>…boys. Arms pressed against his back, knees bracketing his hips, marble countertops digging into the bones of his arse as his spine met the wall. </p><p>It was then, that he knew.</p><p>That moment, that felt like an entire lifetime had been squeezed into a single second. The world had hit pause. He could take a deep breath and open his eyes and look at the world, and his life, and feel like he’d finally done something worth being proud of.</p><p>He’d finally done something right. </p><p>“-on you.” He jumps at the nudge to his shoulder, feels the shudder run all the way through his body as he blinks and tries to refocus. “Shit, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean ta scare ya.”</p><p>Tattoo Guy is holding both hands up in surrender and smiling sheepishly at him. The pink beads are dangling from his right hand, which is – quite literally – covered from wrist to forearm in more necklaces he’s looped a few times over to turn into bracelets. </p><p>His shirt speaks of a community center, and when Arthur looks past him, to the large float only a few feet behind, he sees the same logo stamped across the bottom.  “I, uh, yeah, sorry, what did you say? Got distracted for a sec.”</p><p>“No worries, mate, there’s so much going on- wait, is this your first time?”</p><p>“No!” The world comes out before he can stop it, clipped and harsh. He squeezes his eyes shut as soon as he says it, blows out a long breath and tries to reel himself back in. “Where the hell did you get that idea?”</p><p>“Jeez, alright.” Tattoo Guy holds his hands up in surrender. Arthur notices his tiny step backward, and the way his shoulders shift to the front. “Sorry for asking.”</p><p>He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know where to go from here. Once again, he finds himself in this place, spewing some bullshit, unable to even save face, at this point. He’s fucked it up with Tattoo Guy. It’s not the first, and it definitely won’t be the last. He speaks without thinking and the weirdest things set him off and he really, really, <i>really</i> doesn’t understand himself, at this point. He doesn’t understand why he’s like this, and he definitely doesn’t know how to stop it. </p><p>The world, once again, feels like it’s too much. He’s running on a hamster wheel and going all of nowhere, unable to keep up with the hustle that becomes no more than an endless cycle, when he joins it. He’s at this parade and he wanted it to be different, wanted to step outside of himself and exist as someone more forgiving, someone who doesn’t scream unapproachability and prey off others’ vulnerability. He’s not in the courtroom, right now. He’s not in the courtroom and no one’s trying to manipulate some poor, unfortunate soul, and things are – <i>should be</i> – calm.</p><p>But they aren’t.</p><p>And he isn’t, either. He’s not calm and the world doesn’t feel peaceful and everything is turning into the thing he wished it wouldn’t. Everything is awful and he wishes that was different, but it isn’t. His sister isn’t here and Uther doesn’t care and he’s left, once again, stewing in his own solitude. He’s left wishing and hoping and keeping himself from having the one thing he truly needs, as a result of his own stupidity.</p><p>“Here.” Tattoo Guy holds out one of the strands of pink beads, with a glint to his eye. “It’d look really nice on you.”</p><p>“You think so?”</p><p>“Or maybe I just wanna laugh at your muscular ass putting on a <i>pink</i> necklace. You’re one of those guys, aren’t you? Comes down here for a laugh, to act like you’re some tough shit, too good for it? Don’t wanna even make the effort for something you can’t understand?”</p><p>“And I suppose you’re one of those people who believes in the stupid fairy tales that ‘anyone can do anything and be whoever they set their mind to’,” he retorts, face hot. Sure, he was a dick, but that doesn’t give this guy the right to speak to him like this.</p><p>“Better than looking down on innocent people just tryna live their truths? Or are you against happiness now, too?”</p><p>“Listen, mate, I’m sorry. I was a dick. Can you just go back to your friends and leave me alone?” Arthur tries. He keeps his gaze on the ground and rubs the heel of his shoe against the pavement. He wants to crawl into a hole and disappear, disintegrate and deny the world of his existence, if only for a few hours. He’s fucked too much up in such a short amount of time. He shouldn’t still be on this planet, talking and interacting and finding new ways to get people mad at him.</p><p>He glances behind him and takes a few steps in that direction, off the barricade and back up against the brick wall of a liquor store. It’s only a few seconds, before he begins to slide down, until his arse meets the sidewalk and he can press his head firmly against the wall. </p><p>“Hey, whoa, you okay?”</p><p>“What do you care?”</p><p>“Listen, I’m not- I’m sorry,” Tattoo Guy says. Arthur feels a body slide down next to him, but keeps his gaze on his knees. “Shit’s happened before, people’ve been dicks, and, well- it hasn’t ended good. Thought you’d be the same, but I shouldn’t’ve assumed.”</p><p>“My sister was supposed to come with me,” Arthur confesses, with a heavy sigh. “But she’s been abroad for three years and is coming home this weekend and her flight’s been delayed and she’s obviously not here to hold my hand through all this shit, and I don’t need her to, or anything, but it just. Sucks.”</p><p>“I get that,” Tattoo Guy replies. “I- oh, yeah. I’m Merlin, by the way. Merlin Emrys.”</p><p>Arthur turns to him and holds out a tentative hand. “Arthur Pendragon.”</p><p>“Listen…” Merlin says, trails off at the end of the word. “I, uh…I dunno if you have plans, or something, after the parade, but my friends and I have this tradition of pigging out on Panda Express, before we head off to the festival, and it’d be really cool if you came with.”</p><p>“I- I don’t know, I wouldn’t want to intrude…” He bites down on his lip and tries to keep his voice steady. Everything is kicking back into action, his racing heart and shaking hands, the way part of him feels like he’s teetering on the edge of a cliff. It’s nothing. This, is <i>nothing</i>. He doesn’t know why he’s so scared of it. </p><p>“I invited you,” Merlin replies, matter-of-factly. “You can’t be.”</p><p>…</p><p>“It’s been ten minutes, and you already got yourself a guy.”</p><p>“Gwaine-”</p><p>“Goddamn, Merlin. If only the rest of us were that fortunate.” Gwaine brings a hand up to his eyes and cranes his neck. “He’s cute, too. That jawline? Gorgeous. You lucky little shit.”</p><p>“He’s straight,” Merlin mutters. “Or closeted, probably. He looked petrified, for christ’s sake. I doubt he’d even go on a date with a guy, let alone kiss one.”</p><p>“See? You’re already fretting over him!” Gwaine crows. “Once Merlin starts fretting over you, there’s no going back, we all know that! Right, Percy?”</p><p>Merlin reaches over to punch Gwaine in the shoulder, as Percy waves a hand from the other side of the float, shouting his affirmation. He doesn’t even look in their direction, too pre-occupied with throwing lanyards, trying to make sure every passerby catches one.</p><p>“Anyway, he’s here, isn’t he?” Gwaine continues. He reaches inside their cooler and pops the top off a can of beer. “And on his own, and I’m telling you, my gaydar’s a lot of things, but it’s never been wrong.”</p><p>Merlin rolls his eyes and presses his elbows against the railing. They’ve moved a good few feet, by now, but he can still see the flash of Arthur’s blonde hair, pink beads shining where the sunlight is reflecting off of them.</p><p>Gwaine was right about one thing. Arthur’s gorgeous, well-muscled arms almost bulging out of his t-shirt, and an angular jawline so pronounced that it could probably cut the sharpest of glass. But there was something, a certain tension, a stiffness, about Arthur’s body, that felt overwhelming. Something about his hesitation at the pink beads and the darkness that clouded over his gaze, when Merlin presented the lanyard. </p><p>“You could be his gay awakening,” Gwaine is saying. “Imagine it. Ten years from now, the two of you, attached at the hip and bein’ all gross and drunk fucking every free minute, all ‘cause you grew a pair and asked a fuckin’ question.”</p><p>“He’s got a point, Merlin.” Percy throws out the last of his necklaces and finally turns to face them. “Maybe not…exactly those terms, and maybe it won’t be something, but you said he was scared. You could be the reason he stops feeling that way. Don’t you want that?”</p><p>“I <i>don’t</i> want, to be anyone’s “gay awakening”.” He pauses to make the quotations. “But…if I can be the person I wish I had, when I was still figurin’ my shit out…”</p><p>“Exactly!”	</p><p>“I don’t know why you wouldn’t wanna be, that’s like, the biggest compliment someone could ever fuckin’ give me,” Gwaine scoffs. “But yeah, mate. He gets friends, you get a maybe boyfriend. Win-win.”</p><p>“I invited him ta hang with us after the parade,” Merlin says. “I guess we’ll see what happens.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>also worth mentioning that panda express is a tradition my friends and i have every year after the parade i know it doesn't exist in the uk but it's cute pls let me live. and ass cut-out man was an actual guy we saw at philly pride last year. he's iconic and we love him. </p><p>thank you for reading!!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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